


become another thing

by Maculategiraffe



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Animal Sacrifice, Fictional Religion & Theology, M/M, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:07:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28640487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maculategiraffe/pseuds/Maculategiraffe
Summary: (how much more there is to lose, when you've lost everything)
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	become another thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chancy_Lurking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chancy_Lurking/gifts).



> Slipping in right under the wire of the extended deadline, with this auction offering. I hope it fits!

They both know what's important, and it isn't either of them.

So when the day is lost or won, when everything's officially over, with a bang or a whimper, Harold's always known he won't be seeing John again. 

Why would he? John doesn't belong to Harold. He belongs to the temple, which bought him from the army, which bought him from the workhouse, which bought him from his parents. 

(John doesn't talk about any of this, but Harold's the one who chose him, and he did his research first, of course. All available records.)

And once the day is won--

\--well, if it's won, John's freedom will be won with it. And if it's lost, there won't be anyone left for John to belong to, so it will come to the same thing. If he lives. If anyone lives.

.

Harold's not at all sure he himself is cut out for-- well, for _afterwards._ His own parents gifted him to the temple, a male infant without apparent defect, born at an auspicious time, and he's never been anywhere else since, or learned any skill sets other than trance, incantation, sacrifice. So.

.

John is strong, whole, handsome. Tall. He'll probably find a woman to marry him, afterwards. Father children. Find a profession suited to his talents. He must always have been far too bright for the army, let alone the workhouse; he doesn't say much, used to say nothing at all but _Yes, my lord_ and _No, my lord,_ but now that they're better acquainted, he's sometimes confident enough to show Harold his dry wit, make a sly small joke, his face so still that it takes Harold a second to understand and smile. 

It isn't until he does, John watching him intently, that John sometimes does, too. Smile.

.

After their weekly visitors have come and gone, bringing their gifts (food, incense, soap, medicinal balms, bandages, money)--

(They don't really have any use for the money, won't until everything's over, one way or the other. But no one else will need it, either, if things don't go well. Harold stores the gold carefully, in case things go their way, the Lady departing in peace, not ripping the foundations of the world apart because Harold's gotten it wrong. If she only kills Harold before she goes, he'll consider that a win. The money will be John's, then. A dowry, for whatever he does next.)

\--John says, "Why don't they ever stay to chat? Catch up on how things are going?"

Harold smiles. John smiles.

"Can you eat?" he asks.

He asks that, not _may I eat,_ because without ever having received any instructions to that effect, John doesn't eat when Harold's fasting, unless Harold specifically commands him to. Sometimes Harold does, and sometimes, when he's feeling weak, he doesn't, and they eventually break their fast together, eating slowly but voraciously, a silent communion.

Harold says, "Yes, let's eat."

.

"My lord," says John.

They're both bloody. John brought down the sacrificial deer, bound it to the altar, but it's Harold's job to wield the ceremonial knives, say the prayers, offer the beast up by destroying it. The Lady demands it. Requires it. Possibly needs it. She can't hunger, not physically, but she does something analagous, or that's what it feels like when she comes to Harold during a successful trance. 

Unless it's just that Harold himself is always hungry, during a trance, because of the fasting required for purification. 

He's hungry now; it's time to wash and eat, for both of them. 

"What?" he asks John, hoping he doesn't sound snappish. He doesn't really know what he sounds like, to John.

"Is she..." John hesitates. "Satisfied? Does she-- let you know? The Lady?"

"She'd let me know if she weren't," says Harold.

John says, "That's not really the same thing."

"I know," says Harold, flirting with blasphemy, with an expression of dissatisfaction with the ways of the divine. There's no one to hear but the two of them. And the Lady, possibly, but what is she going to do, fire him?

"In the end," says John. "Will she let you know then? That you-- did it right?"

"I hope so," says Harold.  
.

Maybe she hears his hope. Feels it, the way he feels her. Because she does give him something, at the very end. Something he's never felt before. He doesn't know whether to be grateful, or to wish she'd just--

\--just left, just gone, if she was going--

Because he'd almost forgotten what it was like, to be free of pain, to feel healthy and strong, to breathe for the joy of it--

_She'd almost forgotten too, she's been bound here so long, but now she's free, she's going, thank you, little one, you did everything right, thank you--_

And then she's gone, and he's himself again, and it _hurts_ , and he lies on the altar and weeps, calls out to her, even though he knows she's gone, _Come back, take me with you, or let me die--_

"My lord," says John.

Harold lies still, exhausted, and forces the words out.

"It worked," he says. "She's gone from this place. She doesn't need us any more. You're free, John."

John, the steady, strong shape of him, doesn't move.

Harold says, "Take-- the gold. All of it. Go. Make a life for yourself. You've earned it."

"What about you?" John asks.

Harold says, "That's not your concern."

"Yes it is," says John. 

Harold sighs. He's so tired, he's tired of talking, and everything hurts, but he has to summon more strength, to take care of this. Tie up this one loose end, before he can let go. Be gone-- maybe not wherever she's gone-- but gone from this place, too. Free from pain. "John, I command you--"

"The Lady commanded me," says John, interrupting, startling Harold into silence. "She spoke to me, right before the sky lit up. She said, John, stick with his lordship. Look after him. Make sure he eats."

"No she didn't," says Harold, unsure whether he's horrified or amused or even very slightly jealous, at the idea of the Lady speaking so directly and intelligibly to anyone but himself, even at the very end. Especially at the very end.

"Prove it," says John.

Harold lies still, on the altar, abandoned, a shell, a husk, his life's work ended and with it, surely, his life, and then a strange, bright bubble cracks open in his chest, and he shakes, makes a sound. 

It's a laugh.

"There you go," says John, and Harold can hear in his voice that he's smiling, his rare, precious smile. Maybe less rare, from now on, if Harold can keep remembering how it feels to laugh. "Come on. Let's get you up."


End file.
